


Picture Perfect

by Osidiano



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Domestic Violence, Explicit Language, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Rape, Sibling Incest, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-25
Updated: 2007-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-08 18:21:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3218813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Osidiano/pseuds/Osidiano
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written in response to a challenge on Freedom of Speech to write a pairing specifically in a way that you do not ship. </p><p>Boys are notoriously bad at communicating, these ones especially so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Picture Perfect

Black hair, tangled and knotted from fitful sleep, fanned across the pillow’s surface, leaving the sun-darkened shoulder of its owner bare and naked to the cool night air. A blue-eyed gaze brushed over the prone form, creeping up the small arm and passing the shoulder to slide down a smooth and imperfect back. There were scratches in the skin, long red lines where nails had been pressed in and drug through bloodlessly during the night. Halfway down, the sleeper’s ribs could be seen, rising ridges like tiny landscapes. They did not protrude, did not scream of malnourishment or underfeeding, simply a reminder of thin genetics working in tandem with an active persona. With less exercise, the sleeper would not have been so skinny.

Blue eyes stopped at the edge of the blanket, brought up over the sleeper’s lower back. From there on, the body lost shape, becoming nondescript lumps on the mattress in the dim lighting afforded by the night sky that snuck in through the open bedroom window. The sleeper’s companion reached for a pack of cigarettes on the nightstand, strong fingers curling around a lighter on the way back. It had been a compromise brought on after two hours of screaming at each other; the sleeper had been promised sex and a daily “I love you,” and the companion was allowed a slow suicide.

Orange flame flickered up from the lighter, identifying the companion as male and illuminating some of his features for a moment as he lit up. Slanted lapis eyes in an angular face, a sharp, prominent nose over thin lips pressed tight around his cigarette. His skin was pale, but the sleepless bruising under his eyes was dark and the contrast could not go without notice. Likewise, attention was drawn to the heavy lines around his mouth, formed by a decade of frowns and black scowls. He was eighteen, but with his cold and embittered demeanor, his jaded gaze, and the sickness sleeping deep within, he could have easily passed for thirty-five.

Grey smoke wafted up to the ceiling as he exhaled slowly, watching it drift towards the window and freedom as he fed his addiction, wallowing in self-disgust as he committed himself to a disgraceful and cancerous demise. Still, he supposed that it could be worse; after all, the most vulgar and despicable deaths were all natural, coming in and stealing away the last shreds of one’s dignity and self worth through Alzheimer’s and organ failure. If dying was something that he had to do, he would rather choose how and a basic time frame.

He would be no one’s dog.

And really, that is what it all came down to: being someone’s dog. Whether he was obliging the sleeper’s faux-innocent requests or following the dictation of a metaphysical power such as fate, he felt sub-human, as if abiding by anyone else’s desires was somehow degrading. It made him feel like a dog, like someone had clamped a collar down around his neck, chained him to a desk and forced him to do as he was told, leaning over his shoulder with a sneer and well-used riding crop as they reviewed his work. Just thinking about it made his hands twitch with the need to lash out at something . . . or someone.

Beside him, the sleeper shifted.

* * *

Morning saw blood spattered on the sheets alongside dark blotches of sweat and semen, the companion away at work and the sleeper hobbling towards the shower. The long black hair was unkempt and obscured the face from view, but though the sleeper was quite young, there was no mistaking the sex that hung between those smooth legs: male.

The boy fumbled with the handle of the bathroom door, biting his lower lip as he shifted his weight from foot to foot, trying to find a way to carry himself that would be less painful. Blood and sweat had dried on his buttocks and the back of his thighs, smeared and coated thinly where it had mixed with other fluids and dripped down to his trembling knees. The door opened at last, and the boy stumbled inside, catching himself on the edge of the sink just before his legs gave way. He cried out, lowering himself slowly to the cold tiles, resting carefully on the balls of his feet with legs bent beneath him.

It hurt.

_Hands grabbed his shoulders roughly, startling him into consciousness. The grip was painfully tight, and the boy tried to call out to his companion only to find himself smothered. One of those strong, thin hands had found its way into his hair, caught a fistful and forced his face into the pillow. The other hand — right hand, his brain registered the detail numbly through a sense of rising panic — crept beneath him, grabbing the jutting hip bone on the opposite side as his companion pulled the boy’s lower body up at an angle._

_The boy’s arms thrashed the mattress as he tried to push himself up, his own small fingers clawing at the hand on the back of his head when he realized that the effort was wasted, short nails tearing at the skin there. He could feel the other man’s body heat on his back, could hear the ragged, angry breathing. For the first time in his life, he was honestly afraid of his companion. The boy managed to twist his head to the side, gasping as he attempted to speak:_

_“Big broth—“_

_“Is this what you wanted?” his companion, his brother, cut him off, spitting the words out like acid. “Is this what you had in mind, Mokuba?”_

_This could not be happening this could not be happening this could —_

_Mokuba’s mindless mantra was interrupted by a sudden and violent penetration, pain shooting up through his backside. There had been no warning, no prepping or lubrication. Seto did not go in quickly or easily, but instead entered haltingly, the skin sticking and pulling with each additional exertion. For a moment, Mokuba was silent, eyes wide and terrified, breath held and mouth moving soundlessly before a long wailing scream erupted from his throat as his elder brother retreated. Seto yanked up on his hair then, lifting the boy’s upper body briefly. In the next instant, he was smashing Mokuba’s face back into the pillow to stifle that god-awful noise._

_“Does it make you feel good, Mokuba?” he asked, his words almost lost in the bedlam of his brother’s struggle. “Do you like to be used and taken advantage of? Are you happy that I’m paying attention now, that I’m ‘showing my affection?’ Well?"_

“You whore! _I hope it hurts like hell!”_

_Again and again, his brother slammed into him, sweat making their bodies slick and grips slide. Something warm was running down the inside of his thigh, the sheets absorbing the new fluid once it reached his knees. As Seto continued to plunge his engorged erection into Mokuba, it began to get easier, the motions faster and more fluid. Mokuba’s screams had died down to a faint whimper, lost amidst the sound of skin slapping against skin, his strength fading fast with the lack of oxygen. The section of his brain that still maintained rational thought process was certain that he was bleeding, that the blood was making each withdraw and strained entry more acquiescent. Perhaps it was his body’s way of letting Seto know that he had admitted defeat._

_There was a sharp jerking of his hair to one side as Seto lurched forward, trying to keep his balance in the throws of an orgasm. He could feel his brother steadily going limp, the liquid warm and discolored as the semen mixed with his blood and seeped out. It stung and burned where the friction had made him raw. Seto released him, and Mokuba willingly buried his face back in the pillow, not wanting his brother to see him cry._

_“Successful CEO caught in bed with an underaged_ boy _,” his brother muttered the words tiredly, sounding like he was reading the next big headline. The bed creaked slightly as he stood, his voice growing dim as he walked out of the room. “The tabloids would have had a field day with this. It would’ve been less of a problem in July. . .”_

_Mokuba closed his eyes, and let the darkness take him._

It hurt _a lot_.

He sniffed loudly, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his palms, fighting back the urge to cry. Boys did not cry, no matter how much it hurt. He had learned that lesson back at the orphanage; the older kids had taught it to him using harsh words and broken toys, short sticks and trampled dreams. Mokuba had never forgotten those rough times, and so he blinked back his tears and forced himself to his feet. He needed to take a shower, after all.

And big boys _never_ cry.


End file.
